Killing Me Softly

I watch him there on the stage,

almost close enough to touch

and envy the woman 

who put the ring on the hand

that changes shape with the chords,

is touched by the fingers

that pluck and strum the strings,

who is kissed by the mouth

that sings of love

who might know that mind

which thinks of poetry and emotions

and contemplates the world beyond himself.

When they are at home together,

glasses of wine on the table,

does he sing to her by an open fire?

does she listen as I listen?

But then I  think

of how he probably pisses on the toilet seat,

leaves foetid socks on the floor

farts in bed.